For the past month I have hardly been at home but as one of the titles was violent murder, a subject right up my street, I may save this homework for another month.
However, rather than be completely blank I have a little to say on a book I read recently which may give some sort of hope to would-be authors whose work may not be of Man Booker prize standard.
Constance Briscoe was the first black judge in Britain and she used her status to publish two non-fiction books describing her abusive childhood and upbringing, ‘Ugly’ and ‘Beyond Ugly’. The first was very well received and the latest sales figure I could find was in excess of three quarters of a million copies. She also figured prominently in the news when her mother unsuccessfully sued her for defamation of character due to the content of those books. I have not read either so cannot comment on the quality of the writing but her profile was sufficient for me to give her first attempt at fiction ‘The Accused’ a try.
With more time at my disposal I would have attempted a full critique, a learning curve for me, but you will have to be satisfied with a few short snippets which will nevertheless give you a feel for the story.
Two prostitutes, with abusive childhoods in the background to justify their choice of profession decide to open up a detective agency. Before they can acquire their first case one of them is charged and convicted of murder. The other girl sets out to prove her innocence. Okay, I can go with it so far.
Coincidence is more believable in a book than in real life but to base a whole story on coincidence shows a lack of consideration for the reader. I doubt I could list them all. The victim is a seemingly respectable girl about to be married who it eventually transpires went back on the game to pay for her wedding. She works for the same brothel Madam as our two detectives.
One of her client’s is also the judge who presided over the trial and is being blackmailed probably by someone from the church where the murder took place. At the time of the murder the supposed murderer is seen by someone who was at the same school who has, it transpires, gone AWOL from a mental institution. Also at the church is a elderly female fanatic who denounces whores and prostitutes at whim and resorts to violence against our detective. She in turns meets the priest having afternoon tea with the Madam at the brothel. Meanwhile, the leader for the prosecution is also into deviant sex, conveniently provided by the same brothel. With me so far?
To help our detective to find new evidence, our poor convicted killer’s appeal having failed, the Madam provides two of her ‘best girls’ as assistants. Using their beauty they charm their way into the affections of the pathologist reporting on this and subsequent murders within the story and so get inside knowledge of forensic evidence.
Then we have the policeman investigating the crime, an improbably named Detective Chief Inspector Paradissimo, who once had an affair with our detective prostitute and is madly fancied by his female assistant creating conflict whenever the three of them are in the same room.
I don’t have time to include the additional victims, the drunken solicitor, the heroic male friend, the unbelievable Court dialogue and the barrister who agrees to help and works in the next block to our detective’s office.
You could accept this with a large brandy if it were taking place in a small village, but the story is set in Camberwell and no crime could be this enclosed. All might have been saved if the writing had been exceptional but it is the opposite. Chapters are small, the first is two pages, and I had read enough by the end of it. On page 1 we have ‘and as death lingered like a taxi waiting for a passenger’. Not a very apt simile (or is it metaphor) I think you will agree. The book continues in this vein.
I would love to find more examples for you but your curiosity will have to remain unabated.
The book is published by Ebury Press, a subsidiary of Random House and it begs the question whether an obligation has been met in releasing what is the poorest crime fiction novel I have read in many years. Maybe to release one this bad you need to have three quarters of a million sales behind you.
What’s that? Who was the murderer? It was the priest, silly, surely you worked that out?
© 2011, Phil. All rights reserved.
